Page 1 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

CHAPTER ONE

Sixteen days until Christmas

Nothing puts an overworked, overachieving zillennial in the holiday spirit faster than the end of a relationship, a forced vacation, and a mulled-wine stain on her new sustainably sourced cashmere sweater.

I’m on a plane bound for London, wedged between a manspreading corporate type in a budget suit and a college-aged guy who smells like weed and pretends to read Dostoevsky. A few rows up, the seat my best friend Maddie should be in is still empty. At her insistence, I left our apartment while she was still tossing last-minute stuff into her luggage, and she hasn’t responded to any texts in the past hour.

The woman behind me has jingle bells on her shoes, and the man who passed me on the way to his seat is wearing a weapons-grade amount of my ex’s cologne. A preschooler with a Chucky haircut and a tenacious snot bubble in his nose peeks over the seat in front of me, staring, and the guy in Yankees paraphernalia across the aisle brought a to-go Caesar salad from one of the terminal kiosks. I hope he eats it fast, because the only thing worse than the smell of Caesar salad in a claustrophobic metal tube is the smell of warm Caesar salad in a claustrophobic metal tube.

I’m a good person. I generally like people. I wash my clothes before donating them to the thrift store. I leave pretty hand-painted watercolor bookmarks in the library books I return, and I never squish the jumping spiders that seem to love the windowsills in my fourth-floor walk-up. But this? I already loathe everything aviation-related as a matter of principle, so this particular flavor of humanity soup is pushing all of my worst buttons in the worst ways.

The flight must be at capacity, because an attendant who sounds like Emma Thompson announces that the front overhead lockers are full, pleading for passengers to put smaller items under their seats. Of course, nobody does.

When I take out my phone to set it to airplane mode, my heart drops into my belly.

Three missed calls and a text from Maddie.

Evie I’m so sorry! I’m going to miss the flight, call me when you land, love you

Oh god, no.

This trip wasn’t my idea. The only reason I agreed to go was to indulge Maddie’s insistence that I reset after a string of bad luck. My best friend is one of those Eat, Pray, Love types who thrives on travel. She finds it energizing and restorative. I … do not. I like my routines, I like predictability. I also have a bit of a codependent relationship with New York City. I love that I can walk to most of the places I need to go. Queens has my back. It has everything I need, and thousands of things I don’t even know that I need, and that’s … comforting, I guess. My city is more reliable than any person I’ve had in my adult life, aside from Maddie.

I knew this was a bad idea. My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and chooses flight. Just … not the kind that involves an airline.

I have to get off this plane.

Everyone is seated now. The attendant begins the standard preflight safety demonstration. My back is sweaty, and I feel every tiny, soft fiber of my cashmere sweater cling to my skin like bird’s feathers stuck in honey.

I have to get off this plane.

When I fling off my seatbelt and angle my body sideways, I assume manspreader will take the hint that I want to get out. But he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even look at me until I clear my throat. Twice. Eventually, he shifts his legs and I manage to get into the aisle. I’m reaching for the overhead locker to grab my carry-on when the flight attendant at the back of the plane says, “Ma’am, please sit down. We’re getting ready to—”

First of all, “ma’am” is my mother. I’m only twenty-seven.

Second? I will get off this plane.

With an apologetic glance over my shoulder, I say, “Sorry. I need to leave.”

When I turn back around to reach for my carry-on, a man stands there, blocking the aisle. He wears a calf-length overcoat of buttery-soft tweed that’s tailored to the breadth of his shoulders and the long, lean line of his body. I’ve lived in New York City since I was eighteen. I know luxury when I see it. His profile is beautiful—sharp jaw, a sulky bottom lip, a high-bridged nose with a gentle bump. All complemented by a swoop of tawny hair. It’s like he was designed with intentional artistic symmetry instead of a random roll of the biological dice.

He opens the overhead locker adjacent to mine, and he’s so tall that he has to lean backwards so it doesn’t knock him on the chin. I catch the crisp bergamot scent of his cologne, and I’m temporarily mystified by how good he smells. It costs me precious seconds.

Now he’s pulled two bags down and set them on the floor between us, reconfiguring the space so his own bag will fit.

Quietly, I say, “’Scuse me,” but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

When I move to squeeze past him, he bends to lift and swing one of the bags back into the compartment. It almost takes my head off.

“Ma’am—” the flight attendant says behind me, approaching fast.

“Excuse me,” I say, a little louder this time. “I’m trying to get off.”

Finally, he sees me. He tips his head sideways to remove an earbud. “Sorry, did you say something?” His voice is a mellow almost-bass baritone. Resonant and rich as butterscotch. And definitely not American.

I’m on a plane heading to London. I shouldn’t be surprised this gorgeous man has an English accent, but I’m just unhinged enough right now that the complete package lights up my heart like a bonfire in a birdcage. I feel lightheaded.

“Flight attendants, arm doors and cross check,” mutters the captain on the intercom.